


Books and Their Covers

by Ntjnke



Category: The Colbert Report, The Daily Show with Jon Stewart
Genre: D/s relationship, Drug Abuse, F/M, M/M, Non-consensual sex, Please avoid if RPF squicks you, RPF is still FICTION, This is RPF, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-27
Updated: 2014-07-27
Packaged: 2018-02-10 15:06:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 19,448
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2029623
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ntjnke/pseuds/Ntjnke
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There is always, <i>always</i>, a breaking point.  However, if you are very lucky, there will be someone who is not only willing to put the pieces back together, but will recognize the value in doing so.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Books and Their Covers

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into 中文 available: [【翻译】Books and Their Covers](https://archiveofourown.org/works/10567692) by [alucard1771](https://archiveofourown.org/users/alucard1771/pseuds/alucard1771)



> **Special Thanks:** Copious, heartfelt thanks to [](http://celli-puzzle.dreamwidth.org/profile)[**celli_puzzle**](http://celli-puzzle.dreamwidth.org/) , [](http://www.dreamwidth.org/profile?user=random_fandom93)[](http://www.dreamwidth.org/profile?user=random_fandom93)**random_fandom93** , and **myownghost** for their willingness to wade, often multiple times, through this story for me. Without their hard work and thoughtful critiques, this story would have been a self-indulgent typespiel instead of the cohesive story it _is_. Thank you so much, ladies. All remaining errors are mine.

**Disclaimer:** All television shows, movies, books, and other copyrighted material referred to in this work, and the characters, settings, and events thereof, are the properties of their respective owners. As this work is an interpretation of the original material and not for profit, it constitutes fair use. Reference to real persons, places, or events are made in a fictional context, and are not intended to be libelous, defamatory, or in any way factual.

*****

_January 1999_

“I can do this,” Stephen Colbert thought to himself as he ran around the apartment’s kitchen Monday morning. It had to work. He needed a steady, paying job, and Evie had been so excited when he told her he’d made the cut to stay on The Daily Show. Not only had his contract been expanded to full-time cast member, but the new host had pitched a premise that guaranteed a chance to do more improv. This is could only lead to good things.

_Get your shit together, Colbert. You can do this._

Grabbing his backpack, Stephen kissed his wife good-bye, and headed to catch the train to NYC.

******

“Fuck this” Jon Stewart muttered as he got off the subway.

He lit another cigarette as he exited on 50th . The problem with cable television, Jon knew, was that they were fly by night. Each and every one was a money fueled flash in the pan, and if he hadn’t made it on MTV, who was he to think that he could host a reel show for more than a few episodes?

_I’ll just keep my goals simple._

He’d been a writer. A host, for a short time. But that had been a celebrity-on-the-couch knockoff, and even he admitted that the program had been lackluster. Now they expected him to jump from that to redesigning an entire 30-minute timeslot. “It won’t be so bad being the boss for once, will it Stewart?” While Jon was sure the HR exec had thought her quip was hilarious, Jon had spent the last month nearly hyperventilating at the thought of being responsible for more than the order of a few jokes on a page.

_Just go to the first writers’ meeting, and feel out the new writers. Don’t be a dickhead._

Yeah, he was supposed to just go to the first writers’ meeting and promptly tell them that he’d negotiated canning most of their material, and that they were going to start fresh. They were going to love that.

_Just get through it._

Six weeks ago when Jon had walked into the cramped studio conference room to be introduced to the show’s writers, he had felt confident that he could work with the group. DJ seemed level headed and was open to any idea as long as he was allowed to edit the script by one and was never denied Pepsi. Allison was amazingly easy going for someone who not only controlled the schedule of the entire production, but controlled half of the writing as well.

It had been the “re-auditions” that had shaken him. Anxious about how the show would do with a new host but a stagnant cast, Comedy Central had asked that he audition everyone and decide whom he wanted to keep on his team. The show’s current actors were all small-time improv or standup comedians, most of whom had jumped at the chance to keep a steady paycheck, regardless of who was going to be hosting.

Steve, he’d learned during the auditions, was quiet. Weird for a comedian, but he’d proven that he could turn it on like a light switch. Dave reveled in the runaway train effect. Jon knew the schtick was a little two-dimensional, but he also admitted that when the man was on he could _pour_ hilarity from his mouth.

The wild card, as it turned out, was Stephen. Jon had sat through the entire day of mandatory auditions for the existing cast, fighting off surliness because he knew that the auditions were mandatory and that they absolutely weren’t going to let him hire anyone new. It was a pointless exercise in mindfuckery and administration.

He’d been staring at the wall, doing his best to pantomime interest, when in walked this tall lanky guy in a pullover, belting out a horrible cover of The DiVinyls, and insisting to each of them that self-love was the key to enlightenment. That, and GE’s new Reveal line of home appliances.

Jon had never laughed so hard in his life.

Of course, that had been weeks ago. Now he had a show he was responsible for, a shoestring budget, and a viewership of about six people.

He was fucked.

******

_February 1999_

Stephen looked out the window of the seven o’clock train and pondered his first week on the new Daily Show. Since he was holding a script for an on-air piece, the producers clearly liked his style. He had been nothing but polite and helpful to the writing staff.

_Well, not polite, but at least amusing._

He strongly suspected Jon Stewart _hated_ him.

In the week since he had come to the show, Jon had done nothing but ignore him. He’d get only passing glances in the hallway, and while he took notes on Stephen’s ideas during the writing brainstorms, he hardly sat and talked to him about them like he did with Steve and Dave. There were never compliments on his field pieces.

Evie kept assuring him he was exaggerating. “You’re just worrying, Sweetie. It’ll be all right.”

But he knew he wasn’t exaggerating. And he couldn’t afford to have his boss ignore him.

_I have to keep this job. Dear, sweet Jesus, I need to keep this job._

As the train pulled into his station, Stephen packed up his papers and stood to exit. He’d go home. Play with his kids. He wouldn’t bother Evie with this anymore.

*****

Despite there being an open door policy to Jon’s office, Jon couldn’t keep the perplexed look off his face when Stephen Colbert walked into his office Wednesday morning.

Ignoring the reaction caused by his unannounced entry, Stephen unloaded a greasy paper bag onto Jon’s desk and ignored the resulting sputtering.

“Hot dogs.”

“Wha?”

“Cokes.”

“Stephen…”

“Donuts, because who the hell can pass up donuts?”

“Stephen.”

“And Pez. Well Tic-Tacs, but Pez sounds more festive.”

“What the hell are you doing?”

“Getting you to like me.”

“What?!”

“Jon, _you_ have embargoed me. You’re ignoring me!” Stephen pulled a rolling office chair from the round table in the corner of Jon’s office and seated himself with Jon behind the desk. “I’m the youngest of eleven.”

“Eleven?”

“I don’t tolerate ignorance, otherwise known as the state of being ignored. I bring food. I bring drink. Love me. “

A giggle escaped.

_Fuck._

“I’m not ignoring you, Stephen. “

“Then why won’t you eat a meal with me?”

To that, Jon didn’t have an answer.

“Jon, silence counts as ignoring.”

“Since when?”

“Since I brought hot dogs.”

_Fuck._

“Well then, I guess that means we’re having lunch.”

*****

_March 1999_

“Hey, dickwad. Help me fix this.”

“Your grasp of the language is truly inspiring, Jon. You want me to fix _your_ writing? Surely you jest.”

“You said I was ignoring you. Unignoring you means more work.”

“Damn.”

“Can’t have an ignorant boss.”

“Oh no. That wouldn’t be kosher. ”

“Not on The Daily Show.”

“... _With Jon Stewart._ ”

“Asshole.”

“Kisses.”

*****

The status quo between the two was that Stephen kept up the constant joking, and Jon would give him a nod or drop the occasional rewrite on his desk. If Jon felt stressed and was tempted to bury his head in the sand, Stephen would take an early lunch and gather supplies to raid Jon’s office. A brief lunch followed by intense banter, and Jon’s mood would be reset. Stephen could relax knowing that things were okay at work.

They were two people on what was quickly becoming, if not the best, at least the silliest show on cable television. The two of them traded ideas during the day, recorded the show in the evening, and each went their own separate way at night: Jon to a non-walkup apartment he could finally invite his mother to, and Stephen to the rental in Jersey. No one would call them friends, but they got along.

*****

_June 1999_

“I want to host the show.”

“Wha?” Jon took another bite of his pastrami on rye and did his best to listen to two conversations at the same time. He placed his hand over the phone’s receiver. “I’m on the phone, Stephen!”

“When you’re out on Tuesday. I want to host the show.”

Jon made shooing movements with his hand. When Colbert wouldn’t move, he again palmed the phone. “We’re getting Lewis Black to do it. “

“I can do it better.”

“Stephen….”

“Just give me 10 minutes after taping. “

“Stephen!”

“I know your timing. I know the show. We can do a bit about me staging a coup. Just give me 10 minutes.”

Damned if he wasn’t persistent. “Fine. Just go.”

******

“I hate working late.”

“I hate working.”

“I hate working late on Monday.”

“I hate Mondays.”

“I hate to be working late on Monday when I know my boss gets to sleep in Tuesday.”

Jon threw a french fry at him. “I’m going to a funeral, fuckhead! You wanted to host? _Deal._ ”

“Stephen Colbert never deals. He conquers.”

“Well, conquer faster. I have a plane to catch.”

*****

Jon had to admit the show wasn’t that bad. The first thing he did when he settled into his room in LA was watch the show, and he had to admit he was impressed. Apparently, they’d scrapped “The Ultimate Coup”, but Stephen’s desk hogging had the audience in stitches, and when they would quiet down, Stephen would give them 10 seconds to recover before he turned it up again. He was smiling, and charming….and hot.

_Shit, Stewart. Stop it. You’re his boss._

And that was the crux of the problem, wasn’t it? Jon Stewart had never considered himself gay. He also wasn’t a sexual elitist. He knew that a person could no more choose their sexuality than they could choose the nose on their face. But Stephen was Unexpected. And he was causing Jon Stewart problems.

_He’s a married man._

A mantra that was holding less sway every day.

Jon Stewart _knew_ he was a good man. A little quiet, sure. A little caustic, certainly. But what Jon had always had going for him was a reputation for decency and a good head on his shoulders.

Apparently, however, what he was currently missing was a sense of self-preservation.

Stephen Colbert, wonderful trainwreck that he was, was turning into an unavoidable problem. At the studio, Jon was paying more attention to a single cast member than he was to the rest of the cast combined. He was assigning “field reports” to Stephen when others had been out of rotation for weeks. It was a dickish move for a new boss. What the fuck was he thinking?

_That he has a beautiful smile._

He’s a comedian. We call it charm.

_He makes you laugh._

It’s his job.

_He’s beautiful._

Fuck.

All his life, all Jon Stewart had ever wanted was to make his on way for himself doing something he loved. Now he was the executive writer and host of his own comedy show, which was showing promise, and he was considering fucking it up over some damn Douglas Wilde lose-your-mind asshattery.

*****

_September 1999_

“What do you mean they’re suing?!”

“They are _suing_ me. They claim that I misrepresented who I was and told them I was from CNN.”

“But you can’t do that.”

“I _know_ that.”

“Well, what did Jon say?”

“He said he wanted time to talk to the producers and the talking heads at Viacom. Apparently, there’s a whole legal department for this sort of thing.”

“Fuck.”

“Fuck indeed.” Stephen tried to flash his wife a smile. “It was so _funny_ , Evie. The whole crew got the joke. Everyone thought it was hilarious.” Mindful of the kids being in bed already, Stephen lowered his voice to fight the building shout. “But _I’m_ the one getting sued. Shit, Evie. I don’t need this. We don’t need this.”

Evie wrapped her arms around Stephen and pulled him close. “It’ll be all right,  
Hon. Talk to Jon in the morning. It’s probably already taken care of.”

******

If his goal a year ago had been to avoid being a dickhead boss, Jon knew he was failing spectacularly. After the writers’ meeting that morning, DJ had pulled him aside and said that it was his responsibility to let Stephen know that the network was not going to finance a litigation bill and had decided that the cheaper option was to let Stephen go. As the new executive writer, and because, clearly, he had so much administrative experience.

_This sucks balls._

A morning’s worth of calls had left him railroaded and buried in paper that basically said that no one actor was more important than a program that was finally starting to turn a profit. Line after line of paper that basically said, no matter how productive or beloved Stephen was by the cast or viewing audience, the cost of covering his adventure in Portridge was not worth the administrative effort.

After lunch, when Stephen stuck his head in, Jon motioned him to the chair in front of his desk. He saw the look of apprehension on Stephen’s face at their seating arrangement and did his best to plow on with the talk that he had spent the last two hours gluing together.

“Did they get back to you? Is he going to sue? Am I going to lose my job?”

“Look, Stephen…”

“'Cause I can’t lose my job, Jon. Evie just had the baby, and we finally got an apartment in a decent school district for Maddie. I do good work, you know that, and you know I’ll bust my ass for this show.”

“Stephen, I know that. The only concrete answer I’ve gotten all day is that there are gonna be hoops you’ll have to jump through if you want to stay on the show.”

_Liar_.

“I’d do anything to keep my job, Jon.”

*****

When Jon was an undergrad at William and Mary, he had spent most of his time in his dorm room reading books, getting high, or at soccer practice. He had found that in general, lectures were poorly structured, usually boring, and that he could gain as much information from the textbook itself as he could from an hour of hastily scrawled notes from a bored professor.

However, in the years since his graduation, he had never forgotten his professor’s introduction to freshman Abnormal Psychology.

_“It’s a weird thing when the human mind submits to perceived pressures, and, as we say, ‘snaps’. The disconnection is usually instantaneous and the resulting actions committed without guilt. A person suffering from this psychological disorder possesses the rare ability to step outside of their body and view life as a voyeur, and yet may retain sufficient functionality to garner a sense of comfort from inhabiting their delusions. Decisions can be made and words can be spoken, yet the societal guilt that regulates the sane is not there to be felt."_

Jon had always thought it was a very poetic introduction to a course that had given him some very disturbing dreams.

*******

_He’s a married man._

I know that.

_He has kids._

I know that.

_He’s gorgeous._

*****

In the last nine months, Stephen felt that he had gotten to know every look Jon could use with a co-worker. He’d seen him pissy. He’d seen him angry about a stupid mistake, and frustrated that he hadn’t caught it in time. When Jon had first taken over the show, he’d seen him so tired that he knew Jon was living in a place where fumes would have been a welcome improvement.

But he had never seen Jon look at anyone with the intensity with which he was looking at Stephen now. His hands were interlaced, his elbows braced on his knees. He was leaning forward and never breaking eye contact.

“Stephen….”

“Oh my god, Stephen, you are never going to forgive me.”

“Jon, if the network gave you bad news, I won’t hold you…”

Jon’s sigh cut him off. Jon’s moving his eyes to the carpet between his feet caught his attention.

“Stephen, I am going to offer you a deal. An illegal, fucked-up deal, but I can honestly tell you that it’s better than the one you’re going to get if you go down to legal alone.”

Jon looked at the ceiling and let out a breath.

“Legal wants you fired. You are, quote, ‘Great, but easy to replace’ and apparently ‘not worth the cost of a lawsuit against the show.’ I have tried all morning to talk to the right people, and I can honestly say that, as of right now, no one wants to listen. ”

Jon looked back across the desk to the man in front of him, a man who had been doing his best for the past year to make a good impression and help Jon reach his vision of what TDS could be.

“However, I think you’re… you could be beneficial to the show.”

Stephen looked at Jon, confused and anxious. Jon held Stephen’s gaze.

“If you want me to go to bat for you, Colbert, then get on your knees.”

Stephen felt his eyes widen, and he grew cold when Jon never broke eye contact.

“Stephen?”

He knew Jon wasn’t going to smile or break into a giggle.

Stephen felt panicked laughter building up. He felt rage licking at its heels. He went to stand up…

_We don’t even have enough saved yet to pay next month’s rent._

After another look at Jon's eyes, Stephen moved to the other side of the desk….and got down on his knees.

*****

Jon Stewart was not a handsome man after he came.

It took him too long to catch his breath, and his face didn’t flush so much as become ruddy and mottled. Still panting, he ignored the man on his knees and reached into his desk to grab a pack of cigarettes. He turned away from Stephen to light up, took a deep drag, then started the process of putting his clothes to rights.

Stephen tried to do the same.

Sitting back in his desk chair, Jon watched his co-worker dress and took another drag from his cigarette. After watching Stephen fumble the buttons of his shirt the third time, he decided it was better to look at the carpet.

“It’s hilarious to me that you think I ignore you.”

Stephen kept his eyes down and wiped at his face with the inside of his polo.

“I never ignore you,” Jon muttered as he threw his notes into his bag, and picked his keys up off of his desk.

“You’re beautiful.”

He didn’t wait to see if Stephen was ready to leave his office. He just headed towards the elevator and his home.

*****

The ride home to Jersey that night witnessed the creation of a Stephen Colbert that had never before graced the world. There were no papers in his lap. He had no passing smiles for the regular commuters he talked to every day. Instead, he curled up into his seat and just watched the passing city morph into the Jersey suburbs.

*****

_My boss harassed…hurt….Jon…_

His head ached with the thoughts swirling around in it. Would Evie know when she looked at him?

_“Slow down. Start with the head.”_

He needed to find a new job.

What if he couldn’t? He remembered those first few months after the move from Chicago. The endless lines at cattle calls. The handful of gigs that never paid enough, but demanded all his time. And back then, he hadn’t had to support Evie and the kids.

As the train slowed to a stop at his station, Stephen didn’t notice how slowly he was moving or the looks he was getting from the regulars. He mechanically shoved his arms into his coat and zipped it up to his neck. He stepped onto the platform and did his best to think only of getting to his car. Of going home to help with dinner. Of tucking in the kids, and holding his wife.

_He thinks I’m beautiful._

*****

_January 2000_

Someone was banging on the door.

“Hey Jon! We need to go over these clips of the Clinton dinner.”

The banging grew louder, and the speaker moved from projecting to belligerent. “Jon! You in there?”

Stephen held onto the desk in front of him and prayed that the office door would stay shut.

“Jon!”

Stephen turned away from the “God _damn_ it” muttered into his ear, and braced his arms as he felt the thrusts get faster.

“I’ll be there in a minute, DJ!” Jon shouted. His hands grabbed Stephen’s hips just a little harder. “HR’s on the line, and they said it can’t wait till tomorrow!”

“Well then hurry the hell up. Taping starts in an hour.”

Jon’s movements started to rock the desk. He leaned his head down so his lips were next to Stephen’s ear.

“Damn it, Colbert. Tighten up”.

Stephen pressed his forehead against the desk and did as he was told. After a few more thrusts he felt Jon go still behind him. He felt fingers running across the nape of his neck. Jon placed a hand at the small of his back as he pulled away. He heard the sound of a zipper, and it gives him a second to brace for what he knew was coming.

“Every day you prove that it was absolutely worth it to keep you around. We need to find a way to keep you here more often.” A kiss was lightly touched to his left temple. He could hear Jon rifle through the papers to his right.

“Be sure to get to make-up early. Julie’s been complaining that you’re always late.”

Stephen was no longer surprised that Jon had left the office before he even had a chance to pull himself together.

*****

_March 2000_

Jon stared at the head writers of TDS over his desk. They had been talking about potential hires for _hours_ and he just wanted to go home.

His desk was drowning under the headshots and resumes of the writers HR had sent down, and after watching what felt like hundreds of clips, the three of them were no closer to making a decision than they had been that morning.

“What if we made Stephen a writer?” Jon tried to keep it nonchalant as he spoke to Dave and DJ. “He has the experience, and he’s been on the show since I came on so he clearly knows what we’re going for. I hear that his other show may be wrapping. I bet he’d appreciate the work.”

It only took a roundtable shrug of shoulders, and Stephen Colbert went from occasional cast member to full-time writer for The Daily Show with “casting options to be determined later”. As DJ and Dave started collecting their notes and chatting about the opening act for Monday, Jon went ahead and put in the call to HR.

_That was completely fair. He’s earned it._

******

_May 2000_

“You smell like smoke.”

“What?”

“You smell like smoke. And tar, and…and I can’t do this. I’m sorry.”

Stephen kept his eyes focused on the worn carpet in front of Jon’s couch. The room was so silent that he sat back and pulled in on himself.

“Gimme a sec.”

Jon stood up and walked around Stephen towards the bathroom in the corner of his office. Stephen heard the shower turn on, and heard the rustle of clothes being removed. Minutes later, Jon emerged from his bathroom dripping wet and wrapped in a worn grey towel. Stephen kept his silence. He watched as Jon sat down on the couch..

“Better?”

Numbly, Stephen nodded.

Jon motioned to the floor between his legs

“Then get to it.”

******

Stephen couldn’t help but notice that Jon was a mess. He yelled at Julie during make-up, and then in front of the interns when he’d spilled coffee on his suit. He’d ruined half the jokes by either not setting them up right or screwing up the punchlines. His concentration had wandered constantly, and the tech had to rewind the teleprompter twice during rehearsal.

“Figures he’d have to stop smoking on a Monday,” said Steve, bouncing on his toes and flashing a smirk. “You’d think he’d have the decency to quit on a Friday, and save us the pain of his raving detox bitch-fest.”

Stephen watched from the wings as Jon got ready to re-run “Monarchy Appreciation Night”. He couldn’t help but notice when Jon popped a Nicorette into mouth while Ben counted off the take.

******

_October 2000_

Dating had never come easy to Jon Stewart. He knew what he had to offer, and he knew how incredible a woman would have to be to overlook his obvious faults.

Tracey McShane was everything he thought he would never have.

Tracey could simultaneously be the girl next door and the neighborhood tomboy you actually felt comfortable enough to play with. Their first date had been the only time in his adult life where he felt comfortable in his own skin. He felt no pressure to hide behind humor, and he knew his character flaws were being labeled as lovable quirks instead of hopeless social gaffes.

He had sat and marveled as she maneuvered the manager until he not only comp’d their dinner, but also willingly admitted that the service had been subpar. She knew what manners to use, what gestures and words were appropriate, and yet she never let her message be muddled or diluted by the social demands of courtesy.

In the years since their first date, Jon had learned that it didn’t matter if Tracey faced the world wearing her most professional clinical scrubs or her old volleyball sweats. She was herself. She was sure of herself and her every step, and was willing to go anywhere her sense of identity took her.

Jon always guessed that, if she ever felt she had reason to, Tracey would be the one to leave. And there’d be no hesitation on her part because she knew what she wanted, she was smart enough to get there on her own, and she knew that her sense of self was never going to be dependent on the presence of man.

Much less a man like Jon.

It was going to be nerve-wracking to ask her to marry him.

*****

_How can no one have noticed that I’m always last to go home?_

It was late, and Stephen was once again in Jon’s office. He had Tuesday’s script in his hand, and was trying desperately to keep an attentive look on his face as Jon stared down at his desk. He watched Jon flip his pen once. Then he watched him flip it again.

“When I tell you to do something, you do it.”

“Jon, I couldn’t…”

“It was a field piece with a Senator. A fucking senator agreed to be on our show. A fucking _Republican_ senator who lives _in a pink house in Miami._ ” Jon eyes moved from his desk to the door of his office. His hands were wrapped more tightly around his pen, and Stephen knew that he had never seen Jon this angry.

“I’m _sorry_ , Jon, but I promised Evie we could go see her parents last weekend. If I’d known in advance that…” Before he even finished, he knew that his argument was a lost cause. He sat on the couch and waited for Jon to finish.

“When I tell you to do something, you do it. You're off the show tomorrow.”

“What!”

“You’re off camera. You can edit Wednesday’s script.”

“Jon…”

“Are you arguing with me?”

“No, Jon.”

“Then I’ll see you at the Wednesday write. Get out.”

As was becoming habit, Stephen packed up his things to go. He grabbed his jacket and backpack, and, as he’d been told to, kissed Jon once on the cheek before he headed out the door.

******

“Stephen, I love this thing you got going with the election coverage.” Vance dug through his desk, looking for the skittles he’d put in there that morning.

“What thing?”

“You know what I’m talking about! That jackass repressed momma’s boy you play whenever you’re on the set. Dude, if I could come up with a correspondent character like that, you bet your ass I’d work it. It’s like it’s not even you.”

“It’s just improv, Vance. You could do it, too.”

*****

_November 2000_

“Mr. Stewart. Please take a seat.”

Jon crossed the plush carpet and did his best to not show his nerves.

“We have this season’s numbers in, and I have to admit, this isn’t what we were hoping for. We have given you creative leeway for nearly two years and have paid a substantial fee in new licensing fees to accommodate your approach. What you’ve done so far…well, it simply isn’t good enough.”

Jon in front of the executive’s desk thinking of the calls he needed to make, what he would need to reschedule in his life. He’d just seen his brother last week. Larry would understand if he had to reschedule. Tracey had been planning a long weekend away with her sister anyway.

If he started this afternoon, he could finish his proposal for covering the elections by Monday. The y could start filming bits on the campaign trail by Wednesday.

“Mr. Stewart, are you listening to me? This is a very serious matter.”

And if he stayed in on Friday, he could also notate all the film for Monday’s Act I.

*****

Stephen had known when rehearsal broke this afternoon that this evening was going to end differently. Jon had come into the studio on Monday and trashed most of the material for the next month and announced that they were going to cover the 2000 elections. Work had been hell ever since as every show was completely written the day of filming.

He hadn’t been surprised when he was told to stay after shooting wrapped.

He found it strange that he wasn’t upset anymore to find himself naked on Jon’s couch.

“I don’t like calling you Colbert when we do this. Pick something else.”

Reaching for his t-shirt, Stephen suppressed the urge for sarcasm. Jon didn’t like personal attacks after hours. “My name _is_ Stephen.”

“No. I don’t want to call you Stephen when you’re alone with me. Not Stephen. Not Steve. Not Stevie.” As usual, Jon was already dressed and packing his things to head home. To his wife.

“Stevie? Jon, I’m 32.” Finishing the buckle on his jeans, Stephen let his mouth get the best of him and gestured to an imaginary podium to his left. “Stephen,” he gestured with his other hand, “Colbert. That’s my name Jon. I…I don’t know what else you would want to use.”

Jon was standing at his office door, jacket on, and waiting for a response. On nights when the two of them actually spoke, he never left without getting the answers he wanted.

“Pick something else.”

“Jon…”

“What do you like to be called in bed? What have you always wanted to be called?”

“My _wife_ calls me Stephen.”

“Don’t talk to me about your wife.”

Stephen let himself collapse back on the couch and just looked at the ceiling. He knew that when Jon had found the words, he’d speak. At the door, he heard Jon shift his weight from one foot to the other.

“When are you going to learn, Stephen?”

_When you tell me to do something, I do it._

“Baby. I like to be called Baby.”

He didn’t bother to move his eyes from the ceiling when he heard the office door shut.

*****

The set was packed with professional minglers, and the cast moved among the Viacom executives using every performance skill at their disposal. In the corner, Jon laid his arm around his wife’s waist and smiled at the crowd around him, well-aware that he was working funding sources and being watched by the people who made the ultimate decision about whether his show stayed on the air.

“Mr. Redstone. How wonderful that you could make it. I’m sure you remember my wife Tracey. May I introduce you to one of our cast members? Stephen Colbert has been with the show since its beginning and his contributions to the show have been invaluable….”

*****

_March 2001_

“Hon?”

Jon looked up from stuffing his scripts into his bag and gave his wife a smile.

“Could you drop by Hannigan’s and pick up the wine for Julie’s party?” Seeing the protest rising on Jon’s face, she cut him off before his could begin. “It’s right on the corner of 12th. You could stop over before you get home. It really isn’t out of your way.”

Realizing that it was a lost cause to fight, Jon nodded his head. “Sure, Trace. No problem.” One last check for his keys and wallet, and Jon was heading out of the apartment. The car from NBC was already waiting downstairs to bring him to the CBS studio lot for his interview.

“And hon?”

Jon turned from the elevator to look back at his wife.

“It’ll be _fine._ ”

Smiling at her encouragement, Jon took the time in the elevator and in the car to brush up on his skit for Letterman, to decide which stories he was going to tell, and how he was going to bring up The Daily Show. He’d been on Letterman during his standup days and had found the guy to be reasonable. If he stuck to the material he had reviewed with DJ and Allison, it would probably all be smooth sailing.

*****

“Jon, I’ve honestly got to say you’ve come a long way since the first time you were on this show.”

“Well, thanks, Dave. There are certainly benefits to being able to pay your rent.” Jon took a sip from the provided mug as he waited for the audience’s laughter to die down.

“Yes, well I remember when you came on to do your first stand-up set for us. Paul here said he’d heard funnier stuff from the inside of a fortune cookie. “

Knowing that it was polite, Jon took yet another sip as he waited out the audience’s laughter.

*****

The next morning, Jon was pissed to admit that he still hadn’t shaken last night’s interview. He’d spent the morning reviewing skits and had even had an interview about the show’s coverage of the 2000 election. By all means, one comment shouldn’t have shaken him like that.

But it did.

“Let’s take a walk.”

Stephen started at his computer and turned to see Jon at the door to his office.

“Put your coat on. We’re going for a walk.”

He didn’t say anything as he watched Stephen fumble for his coat. He just stood at the door while Stephen got together his things and then headed to the elevators, knowing the man would follow. He was silent as they reached the lobby studio, and silent as they walked up to 56th.

When they’d gone about ten blocks without a word, Stephen broke.

“Jon, where are we going?”

Jon paid attention to the traffic and was looking left then right before he moved into the street. “Do you like bagels?”

“What?”

“Do you like bagels? I know you’re more of a sandwich guy, but I figure we could use a change.” He picked up the pace and turned left. “There’s this great place down here that Trace brought me to last week.”

Stephen let his feet match Jon’s pace. He ignored the voice telling him there was something very wrong with being as comfortable as he was following where Jon  
lead.

When they arrived, the deli was almost empty. Taking Jon’s silence as a cue to order, Stephen got a Turkey on Everything bagel and walked towards a corner table. Looking to Jon for permission to start, he picked up his sandwich and waited for whatever was going to happen.

Jon took a sip from his Coke.

“So, uh, I wanted to talk to you about the Gorzeman piece.”

Stephen wiped his mouth and sipped his drink before replying. “Yeah. It was…”

“Why’d you let them pull it?”

Realizing that _something_ was about to start, Stephen put down his sandwich and gave Jon his full attention. “Let them pull it? Jon, there was no ‘letting’ involved in the situation at all. The editing room canned it.”

Picking at his sandwich and rearranging the lettuce, Jon seemed to speak more to his lunch than to Stephen. “It was damned funny. And witty. You should have pushed your case.”

This was stupid. “Jon, when the producer of a show says your piece is getting cut, you...”

“You tell them you know what you’re doing or they wouldn’t have hired you.”

“What are you talking about?” Stephen could hear the hiss in his voice, knew it was going to get him into trouble, and tried to lean forward to stop himself from shouting. “You and I both know that the only reason I am still on this show, the only reason they have me on as a writer, is because you…because you prefer that I’m here.”

“I know a good thing when I see it.”

Stephen gave up on his meal and settled for leaning back in his chair. He stared at the man in front of him.

Jon, completely nonchalant, was eating his pastrami on rye. He had his chips to his left and was shaking his soda cup to dredge up the last of his Coke. To anyone else in this deli, Stephen was sure he seemed like any other man out on his lunch break. Hell, between his stature, and the cargoes and jacket, he looked like a damn approachable guy.

“Jon.” Stephen fiddled with the straw in his drink. “Fuck it. I don’t know how else to say this. “Stephen’s chair creaked as he adjusted his seat. “I know I owe you. I know what you’ve done for me and my family by keeping me on this show. But I don’t know what you want, and...”

Jon finally looked up. “I want you to do what you do best. Let me handle the rest.”

And then Jon was gathering his trash, putting his used napkins and wrappers on his tray, getting ready to leave. As Stephen made to stand, Jon stood close by his side and spoke in tones so low that he was sure no one else could hear him. “The problem with you, Stephen, is that you don’t see half of your worth. You do your best to please everybody and be a product that everyone enjoys.” Jon wiped his mouth one last time. “The only person you need to worry about pleasing is me.”

Stephen kept looking at the table as he mimicked Jon’s actions and got ready to leave the deli. “So I’m supposed to be myself yet be your bitch?” He couldn’t help but hear the bitterness in his voice.

“Just do what I tell you, Stephen.” And with that Jon flashed a smile. “And leave the chips behind. You don’t need the extra weight.”

The crew that day couldn’t help but notice that despite how surly Jon had been in the morning, he was remarkably on point for the rehearsals that afternoon.

*******

The next week during the network production meeting, Jon did his best to pretend he was writing lots and lots of notes. His first year at the network, he’d learned that these meetings were unavoidable, and, usually, absolutely pointless. However, if he kept his mouth shut, he was one less person delaying the meeting’s end. And the sooner it ended, the sooner his could get back to his studio and actually do something that benefitted the show.

So as the talking heads murmured about “demographic reviews” and “seasonal programming,” Jon was looking over Stephen Colbert’s new contract. He was up for salary renegotiation, and since he was the longest continually active member of the cast as well as one of the primary writers, it was reasonable to assume that he would be getting a raise. Finally. And it was only reasonable as his boss, that Jon would take a moment to look over the contract. He was sure that the network was going to send Stephen a copy for deliberation within the week. Jon had taken a copy from human resources.

While marking the contract, editing it for shortcomings and writing in new figures, Jon had forgotten to keep nodding. He scribbled furiously in the margins of the sheet in front of him and pretended to listen to the people around him argue about the layout of a show they’d never seen filmed and the content of a script they’d never helped write.

******

_September 2001_

Never, in the three years that he had known Jon Stewart, had he ever received a call on the weekend. The show had been cancelled for the foreseeable future, and for the first time in three years, Stephen had heard nothing from Jon in nearly a week.

The call, when it came, was heartbreaking. Confused about his reactions, about the fear in his heart and his anxiety to reach the city as quickly as possible, Stephen drove into New York and let himself into Jon office. When he saw the man huddled into the back of the worn green couch, he caught him in his arms and let his body be a comfort as the man’s sobs filled the office around him.

*****

_October 2002_

“Jon, call for you.” Tracey shifted her nephew to her right hip and held out the house phone to Jon. “I think it’s Don.” Knowing that the coming conversation would be unpleasant, Tracey shut the door to Jon’s office as she left.

“Dad?”

“Jon. Hi. Your mom said this would be a good time to call.”

“Yea, sure thing. What’s up?” Jon told himself that it was perfectly natural to stop what he was doing to focus on the voice on the other end of the phone.

“Your mother said that you got promoted at work. Something about ‘producing’?”

“Yeah!…I mean…It’s only co-producing, but it lets me take over a lot of the creative direction of the show. I rewrote most of the segments last year, and this year…”

“She also mentioned that you were made an offer from CBS.”

“Oh, that. Well, they thought Letterman might be moving to ABC, which left the hosting spot for the Late Show open. But it turned out that…”

“So you’re staying with comedy?”

“Well, yeah. Being in the running for a network talk show is an incredible honor for a comedian, and to be in the running for _Letterman’s_ spot…the only thing better is The Tonight Show. Not that I don’t love The Daily Show. Our ratings have been steady climbing and…”

“I see.” The sound of a disconnected line was all that followed.

Jon wasn’t surprised anymore at the dead air on the other end of the line. But he was taken aback by how much it still hurt. When his father had moved out, Jon had promised himself that he would never let it haunt him. That he was a bigger man than his father. For the most part, he usually won, but when it came to his work, his father always seemed to get the last word.

“The key to a successful career, son, is to dress the part.” Thirty years ago, Jon had watched from the foot of his parents’ bed as his father knotted his tie and brushed back his hair. “You can always tell the schmucks from the greats, Jon. The schmucks sit back and wait for life to cut them a break. The smart ones…the smart ones have a plan and dress the part.” Donald Leibowitz took one last look in the mirror, straightened his cuffs, and put his faculty pen in his left breast pocket.

Thirty years later, Jon opened his laptop to start the layouts for next weeks shows. He wore a worn grey t-shirt, and the cuffs on his cargoes had been frayed for at least three years. And he was producing his own show.

******

“I think we should cover the mid-terms,” Jon said.

He looked up from his writing pad when he felt all the writers look at him.

Jon flipped his pen. “I mean, it’s a natural follow-up to the election coverage. That was the biggest ratings boost we’ve ever had. And every national news network is going to be covering the conventions. It’ll be a goldmine.”

The effect was instantaneous as the writers saw the potential for hilarity in elections that almost no one ever followed.

“We should to an MSNBC thing. Each of the cast taking up a major issue, and, fuck, we’ll need press passes for the convention because we can’t just do something like that on green screen. If we have you anchor from the studio, we can cut to pretaped footage from …” Allison let herself ramble out loud as she worked out the logistics for covering such a large event.

“I think I need a co-anchor.” Jon said, and waited for the other writers to hear him. At the resulting looks, he added, “I think it should be Stephen.”

Knowing the writers were confused at the blatantly upfront choice, Jon fiddled with his pen and gave them his best smirk. “Think about it. He’s so… white.” Guffaws filled the room. “He’d be perfect.”

Stephen pretended to listen while the others started to run with the idea, but he kept his eyes trained on Jon. So, when Jon finally straightened up and caught his eye, he was ready.

He left the room to go call Evie.

*****

“This is ridiculous!” Pots slammed into unsuspecting cabinets as Evie moved through the kitchen, cleaning up after dinner.

“Evie, honey, it’s the DNC! It’s the hub of political fodder. Comedy Central is _paying…_ ”

“I don’t care! He’s had you for tapings three weekends in a row. Steve doesn’t go out that much. Neither does Dave or Mo!”

“This is my job, Evie! You _know_ I’m home as often as I can be!”

“Your _job_ is to be a good husband and a present father to our kids. How the hell do you expect to do that if you’re _never home._ ”

Stephen watched as his wife stomped out of the room. With a sigh, he started to climb the stairs to pack his suitcase. In the end, he decided to put it off until morning. It never sat well with him to let his wife go to bed angry. And, if he did say so himself, he finally could admit that if there was anything he was good at, it was calming down angry people after hours.

*****

The convention was a beast. The crew was put up in college dorms, and between the early calls and late night writing, there wasn’t a person among them who felt they didn’t need a day off. At the end of taping for the week, most of the crew had headed off to a local pub to blow off some steam. Jon had pled exhaustion and old age, saying he was going back to his room to sleep until the bus left in the morning. Stephen, knowing his cue, had said that he wanted to try and call back home before it got too late.

What they ended up doing was taking Jon’s rental to a hotel on the other side of town. They’d never gone to a hotel before. So far it had only been at the studio, or, once, the van after a field piece Jon wanted to oversee himself.

Two hours after ending the most exhausting professional week of his life, Stephen found himself naked in a room full of chintz.

_I’m naked in a room full of chintz._

Stephen decided there was nothing less sexy than being naked in a room full of chintz.

“Give me your glasses.”

Stephen tried a smile. Lately, Jon hadn’t minded a little cockiness. “Jon, if you like my eyes that much…”

“Glasses off. On the bed.”

Already turning, Stephen quipped, “You could say ‘Please.’”

“Stephen, do as you’re told.”

_Fuck._

Stephen climbed on the bed. He wished Jon would tell him when he was getting like this. Over the years he had learned that the man followed a pattern. And to be truthful, Stephen didn’t know if he was up for anything more confusing than a blowjob tonight. However, he knew refusal would mean that Jon would play the trump card he’d held in his back pocket for years. With a sigh, Stephen placed his glasses on the nightstand.

“Grab the headboard and close your eyes.”

The lights went out in the room, and Stephen held his breath. He grasped the rails of the headboard tighter, and wondered exactly what it was Jon wanted tonight. They had never played games before.

There was a split second to recognize the whistle through the air.

_Crack._

The pain was blinding. “Fuck! Jon, what the hell do you think…”

“Say ‘Thank You'”.

“No! Jon, this is insane!” In the dark and half-blind, Stephen moved to roll off the bed. He could feel more than see Jon standing to his right.

“Say ‘Thank You.'”

“Jon. _No_. This is too much. No, I don’t want to.”

_Crack._

His back felt like a slice of red. The pain stole Stephen’s breath, and he felt his back straighten against his will. Stephen felt his heart start to hammer in his chest. He hurt. He couldn’t see. He couldn’t leave without his clothes or his glasses.

_Crack._

“Jon, please!”

The sound of Jon’s voice came from so close that Stephen recoiled.

“What’s the first rule?”

“What?!”

“What’s the first and only rule I’ve ever given you?”

Stephen wondered how his life had changed so much that the answer instantly came to mind.

“When you tell me to do something, I do it.” Fighting against the stiffness in his back, Stephen moved back up to the headboard of the bed, and grasped it with both of his hands. He knelt on the bed spread and let his head hang between his shoulders.

“Absolutely beautiful.”

_Crack._

Stephen felt the tears leak from his eyes. Against his will he felt his ass move back towards the blows.

“Say ‘Thank You.’”

“Oh, thank you, Jon.” Stephen felt the guilt wash away.

“Say you love this.” Jon’s hand was stroking over his flanks and around to his ass.

“I love this…so much.”

“Say you love _me_.”

*******

Three weeks later Jon was sitting on his living room couch when his wife gave him the phone.

“Hey Jon.”

“Stephen?”

“Yeah, I mean, yes, it’s me, Stephen. I’m sorry to be calling you on the weekend.”

As Jon realized where this call was going, he nodded to Tracey that it was work and headed back to his office.

“No problem, Stephen. What’s up?”

“I just got a package from the network. They want to renegotiate my contract. “

“Congrats!”

“I…they said that they would like me to take over as Head Writer with the resulting pay and perks.”

Jon waited for the unfinished statement he could hear in Stephen’s voice.

“They want to take me off the air, Jon.”

“Stephen, it’s a good promotion. You’d be head writer on one of the leading shows on the network. It could get you anywhere you want. “

Jon’s statement was met with silence.

“As Head Writer, you’d get to spend more time at home. You said at lunch last month sometime that Evie has been harassing you about being home before 7:00pm. Buddy, this could do it! It’s a good thing.”

He listened for a response on the other end of the phone.

“After the conference….you left a note on my desk.” Stephen’s voice sounded small and hesitant. Jon chose not to hear it.

“Stephen, I’m always up to my neck in rewrites. I probably just left a stray note on your desk. You know I always send admin memos via e-mail.”

“Jon….you know this is my only acting credit for nearly three years.” There was the sound of a hiccough. “You know that if I go backstage it’ll be damn near impossible to get screen time again…” As Stephen’s voice got weaker, it was obvious that wherever he was, Stephen was by himself. His sound echoed a bit over the phone. Had he locked himself in the bathroom?

“Stephen, man, calm down. I _know_ you’re good on screen. Allison told me that you were up for a new contract from Comedy Central. As soon as I have a minute, we should sit down and go over it...” In the distance, Jon heard the distinctive cadence of his wife on the house phone with her sister. He gave them five minutes before they were fighting. Jon would never understand why Julie and Tracey loved to announce parties, and then proceeded to wage war over the planning.

“Jon, please…”

“Stephen, I know you love this show. I know you do good work.” Jon let himself play with the television remote as he figured out how to say the next part. “I guess all the _producers_ would like to know is what you’d do to keep your job.”

The catch of breath was audible over the phone. Jon was almost certain the man was sitting on a bathroom floor somewhere.

“Stephen, look, I promised Tracey I’d take the day off today. I’ll talk to you in the morning.”

“Jon….like I said…before, I would do anything.”

“Anything?”

Jon flipped his phone closed with one hand and went to the kitchen. A quick cuddle and smile, and Tracey was ready to forgive him for working on “their” Saturday.

It might take more to get forgiveness out of Stephen, but the man had already given his word.

*****

People called Stephen handsome all the time. They remarked on his face or his hair that looked equally good styled or soft. They would whisper and giggle over his trim form, and how it looked equally good in a polo or suit coat. They would see he was handsome and, in passing, call him beautiful.

Jon, after many years knowing the man, had concluded that people were never right about why Stephen was _beautiful_. He was beautiful because he was _unique_. At thirty-eight, Stephen had an innate ability to create joy inside of himself and then share it in a form more essential and warm than he’d discovered it. His joy was infectious. His love and understanding freely given.

His forbearance absolute.

Jon also knew that, unlike Stephen, Jon was a man of results. He couldn’t create joy, but he could nurture it, take care of it, and turn it into something that fed the remarkable people who created it.

As Jon handed Stephen’s renegotiated contract over to Newbaun for notarization, he felt a sense of satisfaction that he at least he had managed to help out a friend. It wasn’t what Stephen could do, but it was something.

*****

“…and this is my husband Stephen.”

Stephen shook hands with Mr. Something-stanick and pasted on his best smile. “Finally, a chance to meet the other man my wife talks about.”

“Evelyn speaks very highly of you Stephen. You’re lucky to have such a wonderful wife. Her work at the center has given the kids so much to look forward to.”

Evie smiled and wrapped her arm around her husband’s waist.

“And why shouldn’t he have a wonderful wife, Mr. Konanstic? He’s beautiful, smart, funny, and kind.” She gave Stephen a quick hug, and smiled up at him as the blush started to creep up his cheeks. “Did I tell you? He got a promotion at work! We just closed on this gorgeous little place up in Montclair. I’m so excited…”

******

_January 2003_

The studio had been subdued all day.

That morning Allison had quietly made her way through the offices and let them know that Jon had spent the weekend in New Jersey. His father had died in a car accident Friday night.

“He doesn’t want any fuss about it. He said it was easier to come to work than to stay home. Just give him some space today, guys, okay? I’ve never seen him like this.”

After he heard the news, Stephen had waited, tense, the entire day. Jon seemed neither happy nor sad. His writing was brilliant, and even though he begged off doing any mock-throughs himself, he’d killed during rehearsal and taping. Everyone, cast and crew alike, were amazed at his fortitude.

Stephen was terrified.

He knocked on the office door around 7:00pm, late enough that the studio was clearing out, but early enough that he knew Jon would still be in his office. The crew had approached him after taping. “You’re his favorite. Maybe he’ll talk to you.”

He knew they only meant well. He also knew he had to check in on Jon or they would harass him about it the next day. But he wanted to go _home_. It was Wednesday, and Wednesdays meant that he didn’t have to stay late. Jon had come to understand that he needed to see his kids.

He’d also figured out that Evie asked fewer questions if he went home early at least once a week.

“Hey, Jon.”

Jon was writing on a notepad, feet propped up on the little table to the right of his desk. He didn’t look up when Stephen let himself in.

“Hey, Stephen.” Frowning at the notes in front of him, he scribbled something in the margins. The desk was littered with Funions and Lifesavers. A bottle of Sprite stood half empty next to his laptop. If Stephen didn’t know better, he would think Jon was…fine.

“I just wanted…to check on you. Everyone’s concerned and wants to help. They just didn’t want to bother you all day.” Stephen ran a hand through his hair, careful to keep his body behind the door, mostly outside of the office. “They asked me to stop in.”

Jon took a moment to smile at him. “Thanks. That’s sweet. Let ‘em know I’m okay.” There was a pause as Jon moved his feet off the table. “I’ll see you tomorrow.” With that, Jon turned toward his laptop, and grabbed the next stack of blue paper on his desk.

Confused, Stephen stood at the office door.

Never, not once, in the four years since this had started, had Jon dismissed him so casually. Regardless how reprehensible his actions, he always had something to say when he was through. There was always something he wanted done before Stephen could leave for the night.

He _never_ ignored him.

Stephen entered the office and shut the door behind him.

“What happened?”

Jon kept typing.

Realizing where this needed to go, and feeling his hands start to sweat in response, he took another step into the office. “Pay attention to me.” The man kept typing.

Stephen took a moment to look at the dark head bowed the script. Jon hated having people hover behind him.

It took three strides to place himself behind Jon’s chair.

“I said, ‘What happened?’ You’re being awfully quiet.”

Stephen ran his fingers through Jon’s hair. Jon loved having his hair petted. He said it calmed him down. “You always said you hated your father.” Stephen let his hand run down Jon’s arm to take the pen out of his hand. “I worry about you.”

Then he put his lips to Jon’s ear. “Maybe when he died you realized he was great man.”

Jon’s hand wrinkled the script under his hand.

Stephen recognized the tension in Jon’s shoulder. He could feel the tremble from the body curling into the chair he was leaning against. He didn’t care.

“Did you have to sit next to his wife when they read the will?” Stephen kissed the back of Jon’s neck. “Was she pretty?”

Knowing that he was so close to getting the response he was after, he let his other hand trail down Jon’s chest.

“Oh. Jon.” Stephen wrapped his arms around the hunched figure in front of him. He let his lips touch the other man’s cheek. _“Did you realize how proud he was of you?”_

Stephen’s head connected with the desk.

There was a lot of blood.

*****

That night Jon called Evie. He told her that a field producer had to go home for a family emergency, and Busboy had sent Stephen to Texas to direct the field piece.

I know, Evie. I’m sorry, but he really is the best person to make sure the piece comes out well. It’s an incredible opportunity.

I think he’s been working too hard, too. I’ll talk to him about easing up his schedule. I promise.

Of course, Evie. It’s not a problem. He just asked me to call. I’m sure he’ll call as soon as the plane lands.

*****

After tucking Stephen into a hotel bed later that night, Jon made his first set of rules.

First, he needed to _look_ at Stephen as often as he watched him. Years ago he’d admitted that he never ignored him. It was becoming all too apparent, though, that he often didn’t pay close enough attention. Jon knew that Stephen was beautiful. Stephen, God bless him, needed to be reminded.

Second, Jon’s father would never influence how he interacted with Stephen again. The bastard had never wanted to take care of Jon. Jon, however, was more than capable of taking care of Stephen.

******

Stephen had taken the North Jersey Transit commuter train for years. He understood it. He could make his way home with his eyes shut.

Stephen was now starting to admit that he also understood one Dr. Henry R. Jekyll.

He understood what it was like to feel trapped. He knew what it was like to have your soul tear at your throat, and how eventually something gave. He knew what it was like to watch oneself turn into something terrible.

Stephen was lying to his wife. He had been for years. He had perfected the science of calling after hours and letting her know that taping was going late. It had been going on for so long that she now believed it was part of his job. He showed her promotions and raises and perks, and hugged her while telling her that the extra work was all paying off. That he truly had a wonderful job.

When his wife asked, “How was work, Honey?” he had just smiled, and launched into a story about taping the latest field report. He told her he was happy.

He was being fucked by his boss. They had left behind office games, and, with his consent, Jon had turned him into a living, breathing stress relief doll capable of responding to any given situation. At Jon’s discretion, he was on his knees, on his back, in any room in the studio at any time of the day. He’d done things now that he hadn’t known were possible three years ago.

And he hadn’t complained, because he’d agreed to Jon’s terms. Sometimes, he feared that he’d learned to _welcome_ Jon’s terms.

_Because you’re a whore._

Yes, Stephen Colbert knew what it was like to have something horrible hiding inside of his body.

Stephen would sit in church every Sunday and pray. He’d pray for the good of his family. He’d pray for his career. He’d give thanks and show his respect. He believed in his ideals. He believed in the power of prayer.

But, despite every intention to, he never prayed to change. When his despair over that brought tears to his eyes, when he felt most lost, Stephen resorted to shoving down all of his doubts and fears and inactions until he felt himself again. He was good and pure, and even God would have to forgive him.

Stephen Colbert understood the character of Dr. Henry R. Jekyll, and every day he found himself forgiving the character’s desperation that drove him to want something for himself, something different and something wonderful. Stephen knew the remorse of finding something for himself through unconscionable and immoral actions.

Stephen Colbert knew exactly what it was like to be Dr. Jekyll.

And, he suspected, he was also the only person who understood what it was like to be Jon Stewart.

*****

_April 2003_

Jon let himself forget the mayhem that was producing TDS, and let himself get lost in the performance Stephen was giving in front of the green screen. He didn’t have the license to just howl along with the audience, but he didn’t think his collapsing on the desk was truly saving him any face. Stephen reporting on the administrative workflow of Ex-Het was hilarious on paper. In person, it was too good to be real.

Stephen, Jon had found, was too good to be real.

He never complained. He never demanded. Stephen knew _exactly_ what type of man Jon was capable of being, and yet he could never leave. Quite honestly, Jon was starting to suspect that even if given a choice, Stephen _would_ never leave.

Stephen was _his_. And he couldn’t be taken away when Jon inevitably failed to keep up.

_He was absolutely beautiful._

*****

_May 2003_

It was inevitable that there would come a breaking point.

It was unfortunate that it happened when Stephen’s son was hospitalized.

According to Peter’s principal it had been an accident. The playground equipment had all been inspected. The collapse could not have been predicted. But asthmatic children are more likely to respond to traumatic injury, the doctors said. It was not that unusual.

Stephen hadn’t been to the studio in days. When Evie had called in a panic on Monday, he had taken the first train to Montclair and been to the hospital within the hour. Since then, his life had shifted to a world of health insurance, informed consents, and caring for his children in split shifts with his wife. He simply didn’t have the time go back to Comedy Central. For the first time in nearly four years, he called for leave due to family emergency.

So instead of spending his Friday hovered over a conference table littered with half-finished scripts, he had hovered around the bed of his oldest son. He stroked back his hair and let him know that he was loved. He held his wife close when she cried and let her know that everything would be alright. Their son was recovering slowly, but he was recovering. They were doing everything possible to make sure he would come out of this as whole and healthy as he could possibly be.

It was unconscionable that Jon thought he could speed the process up.

*****

 

From: Jon Stewart  
To: Stephen Colbert  
_Just checking on you…._

Stephen looked at the message and decided he was too tired to deal with it.

*****

 

From: Jon Stewart  
To: Stephen Colbert  
_I hope all’s well with Peter. How long should I stall the producers?_

Stephen turned off the ringer on his phone.

*****

 

From: Jon Stewart  
To: Stephen Colbert  
_Will you need next week off too?_

Stephen started leaving his phone at home.

*****

It was the nurse who finally gave the game up. She was redoing Peter’s bandages, and seeing that Stephen looked at his wit’s end, decided to try and cheer him up.

“Jon Stewart must be an incredible man.”

Long used to the affection of fans, Stephen smiled and nodded his head. He moved his chair closer to his son’s bed

“Let me tell you! If my boss had paid all my medical bills, he’d have an attentive sidekick for life.”

The nurse continued tucking the sheet around the bed and completely missed the blood draining from Stephen’s face.

*****

Peter was released from Mountainside hospital at 3:30pm on a Friday. When they made it home, they were greeted with a retrofitted and wheelchair accessible house. The homecare nurse arrived promptly at 6pm.

Jon texted at 6:30.

 

From: Jon Stewart  
To: Stephen Colbert  
_Let me know if you need anything._

By seven, Stephen knew his two worlds were about to collide. Four years of working with Jon Stewart made him fear which one would win.

*****

“Stephen! Dude, welcome back! How’s Peter?” Jon had risen from the conference table in the writing room the minute Stephen had stepped into the office. His smile was bright, and the other writers in the room smirked at their boss’s obvious glee over Stephen’s return.

“In your office, Jon. Now.” Stephen walked out of the room towards the hallway. He didn’t catch the looks thrown his way. He only listened for the sound of Jon catching up.

“Tracey was telling me that she knows a great physical therapist, if you’re looking for one. I got the number in my jacket pocket.” As he unlocked the door, Jon gave him another smile and moved to the closet to dig out the business card his wife had handed him this morning. “Just give me a sec.”

Stephen closed and locked the door behind him. He moved to Jon’s desk and waited until the shorter man turned to face him.

“What game are you playing?”

“Hunh? Oh! Her office is off Columbus circle, but apparently she specializes in in-home pediatric rehabilitation. Tracey saw her work with…”

“Who the fuck do you think you are, messing with my family?”

“Anyway, Trace called her and let her know about Peter, and she said she’d be happy to commute to New Jersey if…”

Stephen’s palm hitting Jon’s desk was a shotgun crack.

“No. None of this bullshit. You answer me honestly. Now. “

Jon slid the business card across his desk. And shrugged.

“I needed you back at work. You’re half of the off-kilter comedy on the show.”

“Fuck you. You’re lying.”

“If this is about the bills, don’t sweat it. I put it all through Busboy. It’s legit.”

“This was never supposed to leave the office, Jon. You leave my family out of this.”

“Allison said you were going to be out for at least a month. Now you can work half-days. No filming.”

Ignoring the storm standing in front of his desk, Jon sat in his chair and started clicking through to his e-mail.

“Half shifts will be hard to work around. You can’t come in early. Can’t leave late. I knew you wouldn’t feel comfortable leaving Peter at all unless you were sure he would be getting the best care.”

“Jon...”

“Can’t tell anyone we were working late on a piece, not with your boy sick.”

For the first time in years, Stephen treated Jon as an equal as he shoved the man against the office wall. With his hands gripped in the collar of Jon’s shirt, he made sure the man was looking him in the eye.

“Somewhere in there, you know this escapism has made you sick.”

Stephen took a step back from him.

“You went too far. I’m not doing this anymore.”

Stephen left the office.

Jon only knew that he was supposed to kiss him on the cheek before he headed out the door

*****

_July 2003_

“Trace, hon, that’s what you told me to buy.” Jon shoved his shoulder into the break room door, juggling his lunch in one hand and the cell phone spewing the voice of his wife with the other. “No, I don’t know the difference between Chablis and Rose. You said the pink wine from St. Michelle. That’s what I bought.”

The trick to avoiding conversation in the TDS break room was to enter in such a way that you could access the kitchenette in the back without getting sucked into the script edits at the table. So Jon clung to the wall, turned his head toward his phone, and did his best to look terribly busy. It wasn’t too hard when the sound of his wife’s ranting could be heard over the phone.

One Tupperware went into the microwave.

*****

The first time Jon had met Stephen was in the TDS breakroom. The producers had wanted to talk about introducing the new host to Kilbourne’s old staff. As the group was breaking up, Stephen walked into the room holding the hand of a little boy and talking very earnestly about the difference between trolls and hobbits. He had sat at the table as the producers filed out, and, after placing his son on his lap, started whispering into the boy’s ear. Whatever he’d said, the boy’s shout of laughter rang into the hallway. Jon had caught Stephen’s answering smile as he turned to close the door behind him. It lit up the room.

*****

_August 2003_

“Hi, Mom!”

“Jonny!”

“Hiyas. I’m calling to get that date for Michael’s bar mitzvah. I know you told me weeks ago, but it’s been crazy busy and, once again, I forgot to write it down.”

Tracey turned on the couch to watch the conversation. Jon always looked so happy when he talked to his mom.

“It was last week? Oh god, mom. I’m sorry. No really. I’ll, I’ll call Mitch and let him know that it wasn’t personal. Mom, you know what I mean. That I’m sorry. “

“Yeah, mom. Love you, too.”

Tracey turned back to her book before her husband hung up the phone. Tonight was not the night for The Conversation.

*****

Once, years ago, Jon had gotten drunk at an office party and knew he wouldn’t be able to make it home. Feeling like a first-class asshole, he’d called Tracey and told her what had happened. She told him to just sleep it off on the couch at work and she’d see him in the morning. Thankful that his wife was so wonderful, Jon had passed out.

He woke to find a chair pulled up to the couch, Stephen sitting in front of him holding a cup of coffee and a bagel. Plain with cream cheese. His favorite.

“Up and at ‘em. The mob wants you in the conference room by ten, and by the looks of it you’re not going to make it. “

As he had shuffled to the office shower intent on returning to the land of the living, he quipped, “Why don’t you go in there and do it. God knows you know my job as well as I do.”

“Unh-unh, tiger. Mom’s birthday tomorrow. I’m on a flight at one.”

“How the hell do you remember all these things.”

“It’s called a date book, Jon. Invest in one. Watch your life change.”

As he picked up his bookbag to head out, Stephen had stopped to kiss his left cheek. “Remember to get flowers on the way home. You’re supposed to take Tracey out tonight to celebrate her promotion.”

When Stephen was around, he never forgot dates.

*****

_September 2003_

“Jon! Makeup in five!”

 

“I’m coming, Julie! Lemme just make this call.” As he turned back to he phone, his screen lit up and the “Incoming Call” signaled. Jake from Citigroup was on the other line.

“Hey Mark? Yea. I got this other call coming in. I hate to do this, but could I…”

“Jon, you finish the edits for Act 2?” Sam was already in makeup, and holding out her blue script to her boss. It was covered in his red pen marks. He’d promised her the rewrite because the Cheney jokes had fallen flat in rehearsal.

“They’re on my desk, Sam. Could you just run in and get them? Julie’s waiting for me in…” On his phone, Mark was taking about closing on the TriBeCa apartment and something about…

“Jon! Lighting check! Pronto!” Jeff was hanging off of Camera 2, pointing to his watch with a look of exasperation on his face. He’d been calling for a lighting check for over an hour.

“Jon, I _know_ it’s late, but Steve is on his way.” DJ was at the set door . “He wants to know if you need the scepter prop or if he can just get the crown. Apparently, fucking Dan already rented…”

Jon heard the tell-tale whine of his phone line going dead. Then the screen lit up again.

 

Incoming Call: Mom

“Hi, Mom. Did you get my message?”

“JON! Werner’s saying he doesn’t want you to bring up the bill. He’s got some fuckin’ bullshit about…” Allison was at the desk ripping his script apart and talking to the teleprompter tech.

“Yeah, Mom. I know I said I’d be able to come down this weekend. I’m so sorry but…”

Jon saw Stephen watching him from stage left. When he realized Jon could see him, he went backstage.

“JON!!”

*****

“Father Craig?” Stephen sat in the cramped office, twirling the cord of the phone around his finger and hoping that the helpful person on the other end of the line had connected him to the right person.

“Stephen, it’s so good to hear from you! How can I help you, son?”

“I heard you need a Sunday school teacher. Will a comedian do?” He knew his laughter sounded a little forced, but he just pitched his voice a little higher and kept on. “I can play all of Noah’s Ark. I do a mean monkey. My hummingbird needs some work, though.”

Stephen rested his forehead in his hand when all he got back was silence.

“It’s a lot of hours, Stephen. Every Sunday. Evie said the show keeps you very busy. Can you make that?”

Outside in the hallway, he heard Jon rush by, DJ and Allison after him with rehearsal notes. Apparently they were moving up filming by fifteen minutes.

“Of course, Father. I wouldn’t volunteer if I was worried I couldn’t.”

*****

_October 2003_

Jon hated these meetings. Once a year, he had to come into this overly plush office and pretend that he felt comfortable. Pretend that the man in front of him couldn’t pull the plug on everything he had worked so hard to accomplish.

“Jon, I just want to say that I’ve been very impressed by what you’ve managed to do with this show. When you took over, it was filler until the 11:30 slot.” Jon pasted on a pleasant smile and nodded as the man in front of him opened a small wooden box on his desk.

“I called you in here because I want to talk about the upcoming year. As you know, next year is a major election year.” The man paused to unwrap his cigar. He took his time to unwind the paper collar embossed with “Behike” in curling gold writing.

“Viacom is prepared to fully finance any coverage of the 2004 elections, as well as pay for your press releases of network footage. “

Jon waited for the other shoe to drop.

“Of course, as that would involve a considerable investment on the part of the network, we just want your assurance that there would be a suitable audience to view your coverage.”

*****

It had been a work night, and therefore perfectly within his rights to call.

He knew that he needed to get out of there quickly, before the press realized who exactly was being detained in an Inglewood jail. An old driver’s license stating Jonathan Leibowitz was only going to buy him so much time.

Even traveling from Jersey, Stephen had made it there in little over an hour. He paid bail using the credit card Jon had given him for emergencies. He had made the reservations for a hotel room for him to sleep in, and had walked him from the cab to the room. He’d even turned down the bed after Jon had taken a shower.

Now, four months after the last time he’d had a real conversation with the man, Jon realized that the only person he had ever spoken to when his temper got the better of him, was Stephen.

That night he had sat on a random hotel bed on the West Side and talked to Stephen for hours about how angry he was that no matter what he did, the ratings weren’t going up. They couldn’t find a rhythm that people would buy into. How he’d started a damn fight because his fingers had been itching for a cigarette, his mood was foul, and some dumbass had said the wrong thing at the wrong time.

Stephen must have stayed until he fell asleep. When he woke in the morning, his wallet and keys were on the nightstand. His clothes were folded in the chair.

Stephen had never brought it up again.

Years later, he was walking out of the same damn office feeling the same damn rage, and he knew he really hadn’t come that far. And this time, when he passed a street vendor on 79th and Broadway, he bought a pack of cigarettes hoping to prevent the rest from happening.

*****

_November 2003_

“No, Jon, April isn’t good enough.”

“Tracey, honey, you’ve known since October that our next hiatus isn’t until April.”

“We haven’t left this damn apartment since we were married, Jon! I know you’re busy, baby. I really do understand. But both of us have the day off.” Tracey knelt in front of the couch and took her husbands hands in hers. “I think you need a break.”

Jon tucked Tracey’s hair back behind her ear. He kissed her forehead and brought her up to the couch for a hug.

“Honey, I love you. You know I do. But if this isn’t done by Monday, the show won’t go into production on time.” He felt her stiffen in his arms and held her tighter, hoping to make her understand. “DJ and Mike have been just awesome and done most of the work, letting me stay home. They only left me the polishing. But I _need_ to do these edits. Please, if I have…”

“All I’m asking is for you to put down the fucking script and pay attention to your wife for a change.”

“I do pay attention to you! Outside of work, you’re the only person I ever see!”

“That’s supposed to make me feel fucking better! That you see me every night between stumbling in the door at eleven, and every morning before I even wake up.”

“I come home because I love you! Because I want to see you. I’m sorry if the terms don’t meet with your approval. “

They were both on their feet now, facing off across the living room.

“You keep asking me to make time. More time at home. More time to go out.” Jon felt his face flushing. He ran his hands through his hair. “And I _try_. My god, Tracey, do I try.” He brought his eyes up to meet his wife’s, and even though he didn’t want to, he could hear the accusation coming out in his voice. “But even though you want me to spend more time, it’s always, ‘We need a bigger place, Jon. Why do we have to live in SoHo, Jon. We need to start a family, Jon.’ Why the fuck do you think I work so hard?!”

At that moment, Tracey had never felt so betrayed in her life. She stepped closer to her husband.

“I think that you spend so much time at work because you have absolutely nothing else in your life that matters. “

The bedroom door shook as Tracey closed it behind her.

Fifteen minutes later when she had her bags, she took a moment to lean over the couch. “Even if you have a spare moment this weekend, god knows you’d probably spend it working.”

The apartment echoed after Tracey slammed the front door. Jon just put his head down in his hands and prayed for anything. Anything else.

*****

_December 2003_

It was too much.

There were too many people, coming at him from too many directions. He’d escape from one overcrowded office, to be inundated by more people that wanted his time. They’d press too close. They’d ask for too much.

His days had become an endless cacophony of voices climbing over each other. He needed to do something now. He was running too late on something he’d already promised.

All he wanted, in the entire world, was someplace safe. Someplace quiet. Someplace where he did things right. He needed to get away from here, away from them and if he didn’t do it _right now_ he was going to lose his fucking mind.

It was four o’clock on a Wednesday. He was already in his suit, in full makeup. Allison was again asking about yet another change he’d asked for this morning, and as she talked, he felt his feet moving away from her. He saw the quizzical look cross her face, but didn’t have the energy to process it. He only knew to move back. To press out. And that the faster he moved, the thinner the press of bodies around him was getting.

The voices were getting quieter.

Jon Stewart couldn’t see the picture he painted. Dazed, tears running down his face, pushing back against a crew he’d worked with for years, fighting his way toward the stage exit. Mumbling harsh whispers to himself and bracing his hands in front of himself when he turned away from his co-workers.

The further he got from the city, the calmer he became. More of the world gradually registered with him. He saw the street become the subway. He recognized the garage attendant, even if he couldn’t comprehend the words thrown in his direction. He didn’t know where he was going. His cell phone was ringing. He was running low on gas.

As things became clearer, the sense of drowning became that much stronger. Jon, for once in a place that was blissfully quiet, floored the pedal and did his best to disconnect.

*****

The fallout of Jon’s leaving was bad.

Every time the show had had a guest host, it had been planned, the script carefully written to depend on content instead of Jon’s trademark method of delivery.

Stephen, for some reason, had turned down the opportunity to host, saying that he’d done it already, and Sam had been with the cast nearly as long as he had.

It certainly didn’t feel like it to her when she sat at the desk.

Turning to camera 3, Sam delivered the punch line. She let the laughter roll over her as she turned to face center stage.

“I bet you’re all wondering where little Jonny Jewboy is tonight, and why you have to stare at my gorgeousness for the rest of the show.” Giggles erupted. “Jon Stewart, audience, is taking a well-deserved day off for the birth of his first niece. “ The audience “awwed” and clapped for their absent beloved host.

“And to the new little Stewart: Chin up, kid. In a few months, you’ll be taller than Uncle Jonny anyway.”

*****

Stephen, of course, was feeling a little less confused than the rest of the crew.

That wasn’t to say he felt any less numb.

As the production team had hit the phones trying to track down where Jon had run to, Stephen said he was going to try and make calls to some of the places he knew Jon liked to hang out.

He didn’t. He went home.

He walked through the front door of the house that Jon Stewart had helped him buy, sat on the couch, and stared at the wall. Evie was still out with the kids. They weren’t due home until dinner time.

He wasn’t surprised when his cell rang.

“Stephen! Stephen, it’s Evie. Tracey just called and....Stephen?”

People had been calling him all day. His wife. _His_ wife. Sam. Steve. Old cast. New cast. Every writer. Every friend.

Something was wrong with Jon.

Get Stephen.

“Stephen, hon, where are you?”

Because of course, when something was wrong with Jon Stewart, everyone knew that Stephen could fix it.

Stephen was the one who made Jon laugh.

Stephen was the one who could get into his office after hours.

Stephen was the one Jon could tolerate on weekends.

Jon had gone running off into the night.

Get Stephen.

“Stephen? Honey, what’s wrong?”

Who cares if Jon Stewart was a controlling fucker who had had a breakdown coming for years?

No one knew that Jon had perfected a lovable façade for the public. That a quick smile and blue eyes hid a person who'd held him down four nights a week for years. That he had perfected the art of taking what he wanted when it wasn’t willingly given.

No one knew where Jon was.

So they all were asking Stephen.

“Oh, honey, are you crying? Honey, it’ll be alright. He probably just needed a break. The way you two work. Always under so much pressure. He’ll be alright, and then he’ll be back. Just you wait.”

Evie ended the call saying she was going to drop the kids off at Margie’s, and then she’d be home as soon as she could. Stephen let the phone drop to the table, and curled into himself as the tears finally started coming.

*****

Jon had reached the house on autopilot. He’d just driven and driven, only stopping for gas. If he could have been, he would have been shocked at where he had ended up.

The place was wrecked. It had sat intentionally unused for years. The paint was faded, the porch sagging.

But it was _away_.

When he had opened the front door, he just stared around at the furniture. Looked at the paintings on the wall. The china in the cabinet he hadn’t even known was there.

He instantly hated it.

For the last two days, Jon had torn at the place, torn at life, trying to get this thing inside of him _out_. He’d ripped the curtains from the walls. Slashed everything hanging from the walls. When that hadn’t work, he resorted to _breaking_. The shed in the back had stored a pick that had done quite well.

It wasn’t working.

*****

As stressful as the last few days had been, as many calls as he had answered, and as many half-truths as he had told the authorities, he had for some reason naively thought The Problem wouldn’t follow him to bed.

“Can you think of any place else we haven’t covered? Maybe someplace the two of you went on vacation? Or that he mentioned over a meal?”

Stephen settled the comforter around himself and reached to turn off the lamp on the nightstand. As Evie continued her questions, he pulled her body to his and placed his head next to hers. He kissed her temple as she continued to work through her worries.

“I’m sorry that I’m still talking about it. It just doesn’t make sense that no one can reach him. Tracey’s frantic, Stephen. She called me at lunch, and when I heard what she’s going through….” Stephen stopped her with a kiss on top of her head.

“We’re all looking for him. Just like you said, ‘It’ll be alright.”

“I know. I was just hoping that there was some way we could help. And then I got to thinking of all the time you guys spend together and what if there was someplace you knew about that Tracey didn’t….”

_Fuck._

“…because then, we could look somewhere new and it would give Tracey something to hold onto.”

He pushed down the nauseating mix of panic and dread that had started to rise.

“Honey.” Stephen kissed her again. “Evie.” He tucked the comforter around her. “Tracey is his _wife_. She knows him better than I ever will. And if I thought I knew where he could even possibly be, don’t you think I would have said something by now?”

“Oh, Stephen. I know that. It’s just that….”

“Rest. I’ll go see Trace in the morning. I promise.”

Stephen held his wife as she jittered and talked her way through her worries, and kissed her temple when she finally fell asleep.

_Fuck._

*****

Jon knew himself well enough to realize where things would escalate when pure rage refused to be the answer.

Money, he had learned long ago, could buy you just about anything. And in rural Pennsylvania, not a lot of money could buy you a whole hell of a lot. Anything you wanted.

Jon kicked a bottle out of the way. He put his hands on his knees and knelt beside the lady gaining consciousness on his couch.

“I told you to leave when we were done.”

The thump she made as she slid to the floor and reached for her dress was enough to piss him off.

“Stupid bitch. When I tell you to do something, do it.”

*****

Stephen couldn’t sleep.

Actually, if were honest, he hadn’t gotten a full night’s sleep in days.

And, if he were honest with himself, he hadn’t felt rested in months. Not since May.

Evie was sleeping to his left, having given in to exhaustion hours ago. She had spent the day at the office, helping the staff make calls and talking to anyone who might have seen Jon after he left the stage. Three days into the search, and they still didn’t know where he was. Tracey was frantic. Apparently, they had had a fight weeks ago, and she’d moved back in with her sister.

Jon hadn’t said a word about it.

They’d gone through Jon’s things at the apartment. Nothing was out of place. There were the signs of more work taken home than usual, scripts and contracts scattered across the coffee and dining tables. Takeout food in the fridge and laundry piled into a heap by the hamper. The whole place had smelled of smoke.

It really all made Stephen feel like laughing. Of course, he couldn’t do that. Not with the crew around him wearing faces etched with concern and fatigue. But really, about a day into the whole fiasco, he’d been tempted to stand on a desk and yell for everyone to hear, _“Jon Stewart ran because he deals with stress by fucking me. And guess who decided, after four fucking years, that that simply wasn't Kosher anymore?”_

No. _No_. Certainly not the best approach. It wouldn’t put the office any closer to finding Jon, and with the way Allison was watching the staff, they’d probably send him to the hospital thinking he’d suffered some psychotic break from losing his best friend.

Stephen Colbert was still awake at 4:00am on a Wednesday morning because Jon Stewart was his best fucking friend.

And he knew where he was.

And he couldn’t decide if he wanted to go get him.

*****

_You can’t trust people._

Jon’s feet pushed beer cans out of his way as he stumbled up the stairs toward his bed. The stereo system had been turned to blast hours ago, and the walls around him shook with the bass line of whatever CD was currently in the changer.

_They lie. They cheat. You can’t trust ‘em._

As he passed the bathroom, he patted down the pocket of his shirt for a lighter. He’d put one in there earlier. Fucking figured that the thing was gone now that he actually needed it. Placing he hand-rolled joint between his lips, he continued toward his bedroom, ignoring the man pressed against the wall, quietly moving away from him down the hallway.

_If they just did what they said they would._

The bedroom was how he guessed he left it. Sheets ripped off the mattress, window wide open to let the winter air in. There. On the dresser. His fucking matches.

_If they would just do what they said they would, it wouldn’t have to be so fucking hard._

Moving from the dresser to the nightstand only took a few seconds. It took just two more to roll on the condom. Moments to push a nameless body off the one he was interested in and then sink to a temporary oblivion summoned by heat, weed and a few poppers.

******

As I-95 merged onto the local highway, Stephen let himself truly wonder what the fuck he was doing.

It was a Thursday morning, and he’d told his wife that he was going into the city to talk to an investigator who was following up on Tracey’s missing persons report. He’d told her that he needed to go now, because while the report was necessary, it was also public domain. The press would know the details of the file they had given the police to help find Jon. He’d hugged her and told her that he needed to do anything he could do to find Jon, that the quicker they got him home, the less likely the chance that the media would have time to make a circus out of this whole mess.

Stephen flipped on the car’s defrost as he passed onto the local forest road leading to a house he hadn’t been to in years.

*****

They’d driven up here once before after their interviews with the Paley Center. It was supposed to be a “guys’ night out”, and Evie had laughed at him and told him to pack spare underwear.

“My dad gave it to me.”

Jon flipped on the lights as he went through the house, leaving his suitcase in the living room, raising his voice so he could be heard from the second floor.

“Fucker found out he got a tax break if he gifted it to someone. Figured he’d give it to me, and just borrow the keys when he wanted it.”

_Not good. Not good._

“Calls me yesterday, tells me that he needs the keys by noon because he wants to bring Cindy, his secretary, up here for their 3rd anniversary.”

Stephen heard the weight of Jon’s boots as he descended the stairs.

“Why the _fuck_ would I do that?”

“Jon, I don’t….”

The hit, when it came, was stunning.

“Don’t speak unless you’re told to.”

Quickly, _methodically_ , Jon moved around Stephen. He pulled at his clothes, tearing what wouldn’t give. Not slowing when nails encountered flesh instead of cloth.

“The piece of shit thinks he can just tell me to jump. Tell me to do whatever he wants. Expects me to be the good fucking obedient son when he can’t even fucking show up on holidays and pulls some piece of fucking shit like this.”

The hit landed squarely in the center of his back, knocking the wind from him. He hit the floor before he could breathe.

“Stephen, baby, do you love me?”

His attempt to crawl away was stopped by the quick press of leather against his throat. He nodded against the pressure.

“Why do you love me?”

_Not good._

“Stephen, baby, I asked you a question.”

They'd never gone back.

*****

It took him nearly 5 hours to reach the place. The snow once he hit Pennsylvania was so thick that any sane man would have turned around rather than drive through an ice covered forest in a 4-cylinder.

Stephen could feel his skin break out in a cold sweat.

In front of him was a small cabin, set about a half mile from a lake. While he was driving the sun had set, and the already idyllic setting was set off by moon glow. His car was idling near the turn off from the main road, hidden by the trees.

Try as he might, Stephen couldn’t get himself to put his foot back on the accelerator.

_My god, Stephen, you know exactly what he’ll need._

_You promised yourself this was over._

*****

“Why is it so hard for you to do as you’re told?!”

The belt, _his_ leather belt, tightened around his neck and he felt Jon straddle his sides. As each second passed, he felt the pressure on his neck increase incrementally, as if his…as if _Jon_ , were trying to prove a point.

When he moved as if to speak, the pressure decreased just slightly.

“You…you take care of me.”

When he tried to rest his head on the wooden floor, the pressure increased again.

“You…tell me what I don’t want to hear.”

Behind him, he heard the sound of a belt being undone, a zipper being lowered. He closed his eyes as it became hard to breathe around the noose at his throat.

“You…you love…you love me…just as I am.”

He was so distracted by the belt being used to tie his hands together that he didn’t feel Jon shift, and he started when he felt breath against his cheek.

“Exactly. Just as you are.”

The belt was released from his throat. Stephen’s relief at the cool, sweet air rushing down his throat was cut short by the whistle of that same belt flying through the air.

“Now, Stephen, remember to be quiet.”

*****

When they had gotten home, he had told Evie that he and Jon had tried to go camping. They’d made it as far as forging a local stream before they had fallen, gear-laden, into the water. The bruises and cuts were from their own asshattery.

Of course Jon also had bruises, he’d told her. He just wasn’t fish-belly Irish pale and he’d thought to wear long sleeves and trousers. He’d been better protected.

If he went to Jon this time, what would he tell Evie?

*****

When Jon had come to, he’d untied Stephen first.

He’d helped him to the shower and washed him. He’d brushed his hair and set him in the bed to sleep. He’d even rubbed lotion over the worst of the marks because increasing circulation was supposed to help prevent bruising.

When Evie had called, he’d told her the most hilarious story about how theater boys were not supposed to spend time with Nature. He’d said that it was absolutely unnatural and that he feared he might have broken her dear fragile husband.

A month later, he’d made Stephen an editor for the show. It earned him his first Emmy.

And when Jimmy had had his first heart attack that same week, Jon had been the one to hold him, let him rage as much as he needed to about God’s vendetta against his family. And then he’d cleaned him up, shouldered him through his one bit on film, and driven him home

******

Stephen thinks he stood on the porch for ten minutes before he mustered up the courage to knock. He’d sat there, torn, confused, and yet absolutely unable to get back in his car and drive away.

Every window, as far as he could tell, was open. The stereo was loud enough that the porch was shaking. When he knocked once and there was no answer, he assumed no one heard him. He wrapped his hand into a fist and pounded on the door. When that got him no response, he tossed his jacket over the window frame to protect himself from the glass, and climbed into the house.

The place was…horrible.

It stank. Of beer, piss, and vomit. Trash was mixed in with glass, and where light shone brightly enough to let one see clearly, dried brown smears wear evident. Someone had cut themselves badly.

The trip up the stairs was no better. The carpet was _wet_ , and there was the sound of someone retching in the far bathroom.

Jon, remarkably, was in his bedroom. In his bed, even.

Against his better judgment, Stephen sat on the side of the bed and put his hand to the side of Jon’s jaw. When he didn’t wake, he used his hand to shake him until he stirred. The eyes that met his were bloodshot, so red they hurt to look at.

“Whad are you doing here?” His eyes scanned Stephen from head to toe, still managing to objectify him even though it was clear he couldn’t focus.

“Do you trust me?”

Jon’s body stilled against the mattress. He looked over to the room’s wall and didn’t answer.

“Just this once more, Jon. Then no more hurting. No hitting. No pain.”

Silence.

“If I do this, I get rules too.”

A breeze rolled past Stephen from the open window. Stephen rose to his feet, ready to leave. To get away from something that apparently even he couldn’t fix.

“You won’t leave again?”

It was the one question he hadn’t wanted to hear.

“If I get rules too, Jon. Then no.”

*****

It had taken minutes to clear out the house. Jon had stayed in bed, but Stephen, as the only sober person in the place, had simply unplugged the stereo and announced he was about to call the cops. He had no idea where they went or how they got there. And to be honest, he didn’t care.

Jon he showered and put into the car. They stopped at a local diner for breakfast, and in the car he kept him talking to so he could tell whether he needed to get sober or whether he needed medical attention. As the hours passed, it became obvious that all Jon needed physically was food, rest, and lots and lots of caffeine.

Before they entered New York, Stephen took the exit towards a hotel they’d used before.

******

“Holy fuck.”

Stephen smiled at DJ as he continued to move from the elevators towards his office. He resisted the temptation to break into a run as DJ trotted to catch up with him.

“WHAT THE FUCK, MAN?”

“We found Jon. He’s home safe. He’ll be in around noon.”

******

Tracey had burst into tears when she saw Jon on the doorstep. She’d gathered him close, hugged him and cried, running her hands through his hair and reassuring herself that he was there, he was fine.

Jon had held her close and told her he loved her. He’d moved them both into the apartment, and Stephen had caught Tracey’s eye, let her know that everything was okay, and then he’d headed back to the car to go home.

Their official story was that they’d had a fight. Their first official knock-down, drag-out fight, and that, at the end, Jon had come to his senses and let Stephen drive him home.

Of course Stephen was the one with the bruises. Which of them grew up in Jersey?

Jon, of course, had gone up to the cabin his father had given him. Yeah, that one. The one they’d gone camping at years ago.

******

_March 2004_

It took a few months for them to feel out exactly how they were going to move forward. They spent a few weeks pretending to be just friends, staying within the social boundaries that they knew others adhered to, trying to see how much of that infrastructure would suit their needs.

“So, I guess that means no more good night kisses,” Jon pouted over his laptop when Stephen grabbed his bookbag.

“No mandatory kisses, no.” And seeing a forlorn look creeping into Jon’s eyes, he gave him a quick kiss on the temple before heading out the door.

They built new rules. Jon had to ask, and Stephen had to consent. Jon promised Stephen career independence, even if that meant potential failure. Stephen swore he’d teach Jon that comfort and trust don’t need to be stolen.

Their methods were strictly between them.

*****

_July 2004_

“Tracey’s due next week.”

Jon sat on the park bench and threw what was left of his bagel at a demanding pigeon.

“You doin’ okay?”

“I’m happy. Actually, I’m sorta sad we waited so long.”

“It’s gonna be great, Jon. You have no idea. Just wait until he get’s here.”

“How’s Peter doing?”

Stephen felt himself tense despite himself. It was still a sore point with him. Jon saw it.

“Evie said that he made the softball team and loves it. Apparently, he doesn’t take after you.” Jon looked at Stephen, waiting for a response.

Some of their new rules had stuck. Some had failed spectacularly. There were still some they needed to work out.

Looking at Stephen sitting next to him, trying to force himself to relax, Jon knew that something had to change immediately. Something big.

_They_ had changed. There was a give and take that hadn’t existed even a year ago. And now they needed boundaries. Jon needed to operate without the crutch he’d been working with since he took over the show.

Stephen needed room to learn that it was okay to tell Jon he was angry.

As much as he didn’t want to, Jon realized there was one last deal he needed to swindle without Stephen’s consent.

*****

Apparently, he’d done all the legwork. He’d edited the TDS clips into promo shots, met with the suits, crunched the numbers. He had personally vetted the contract like he had every other contract Stephen had received since Jon had taken over TDS. And when he knew the project would get a green light, Jon had set the entire printed file on Stephen’s desk, given him a look in the eye, and left.

After reading the project summary, the first page on the stack, Stephen started signing the contract.

He had his own show.

*****

_March 2007_

It's a very odd relationship. To the outside eye the two men appear to be the closest of confidants, with Jon leading Stephen’s career, and Stephen’s innate imagination inspiring Jon’s work.

That couldn’t be further from the truth.

Jon still owned Stephen Colbert. He dictated his actions, planned his career, demanded that Stephen obey him immediately when presented with an order. The difference, the _key_ difference, was in Jon’s expectations. Now Jon’s goal was that Stephen wouldn’t need to be told what to do. He was expected to be able to take his hazy dreams and turn them into concrete plans of action that furthered his own career. And, between the two of them, Jon admitted that now there was pride. Pride in knowing that the man before him hadn’t existed when they had met, and he wouldn’t be here without Jon’s guiding hand.

Of the two of them, Stephen thought he was the greater benefactor of their relationship. While the learning still often felt forced, he was starting to adopt Jon’s conviction that he absolutely was a worthwhile product, in absolutely any context the entertainment industry had. He was growing more comfortable sitting at an executive’s desk demanding adequate compensation or at the head of a table presenting his own vehicles. Unlike Jon, he was not sure if his actions would ever lead to complete independence, not to the degree he saw for himself in Jon’s eyes. To be truthful, he wasn’t quite sure he wanted that independence.

What he did know was that every time he saw Jon, his eyes now held genuine laughter, and that it was frustration, not mania, that drove him to make changes to his life and his work. The ‘good father’ he had cried about at the cabin was more and more the man he was in reality, and he was finally beginning to understand that there was no question, big or small, simple or profound, that he couldn’t feel comfortable running by Stephen first.

So they spent weekends at the park, Stephen just looking on while Jon played with his kids, his presence ensuring that nothing Jon did was too obscure or too distant. He stopped by at night to help Jon prioritize his schedule, to help him voice what _he_ suspected was important, not the suits, and then provide the sounding board Jon needed when he was trying to prioritize his life and still reach for the level of success he demanded and craved.

It was satisfying. It was weird, yes, but satisfying. At home, he was just Dad. Just Stephen. Just a good husband, father, and lover. But he wasn’t the vital life force that he was in Jon’s life. And while he knew it was sick that he reveled in being indispensible to a man who had once held him down on a desk, if time with Jon had taught him anything, it was that his own truths, no matter how uncomfortable, were what they were. It was his own job to make sure they worked.

*****

_February 2009_

He knew it was coming. He’d expected the frown on Jon’s face. That little line between his brows that hinted at his dissatisfaction. He had known it was coming, and still he was here, in a booth across from his former boss, talking about an insane idea that he felt he needed to follow through on.

“Jon, think about it. No one does these shows anymore. No one even _wants_ to do them. But if we did, if _I_ did, it would put TCR on the national map. It would bring a new viewership to the show, and to yours. And the troops, Jon…”

“Shut up, Stephen. Gimme a minute…”

The ruthless efficiency of Jon’s thoughts was palpable as he flipped through the contracts, the red tape the USO had sent, the script outlines Allison had put together. When he found the page of required security clearances, his pen came out and flew across the pages, marking it as he had marked up every major piece of work Stephen had done in the last 10 years. His pen didn’t stop moving, and he started, as always, to give Stephen his opinion.

“It’s not worth it. “

“Jon…”

“The crew would have to be split and moved. The time differential alone would mean both crews working round the clock.”

“Jon…”

“And the mess of having a Comedy Central filming team in a warzone? The coverage. _The liability_.”

Stephen put his hand on Jon’s arm and waited for the words to stop their flow out of Jon’s mouth.

“Jon, it’s a good idea, and I want to do it. Can you help me make it happen?”

Stephen saw the tension flow through his body. He saw the strain move from his shoulders down to his fingers, leaving Jon’s hands clenching at the top of the paperwork. And he saw the moment Jon let go.

“You could be hurt.”

“But I won’t be.”

“You’ll need to do _absolutely everything_ I tell you to do.”

“Always, Jon.”

“And you need to come home.”

“Yes, Jon.”

And before he had time to move his hand from Jon’s arm, the man was rifling through his backpack for a new legal pad, already racing with words, trying to convey ideas that would allow the logistics of a show from Iraq. Stephen, his heart rate finally somewhere near normal, let himself realize that, likely for the rest of his life, he’d be doing whatever Jon told him. Even when he was disobeying him.

*****

_June 2009_

It was stupid. He knew what he was going to do the instant he saw Jon start to push back from his desk. But the sight of Jon, in front of his own audience, applauding something he had done... it made his chest thick, his nose smart, and goddammit but he was going to cry.

Standing up to turn the bit on its head didn’t work. Stephen’s parody of clapping was forced to stop when Jon’s face became ruddy, his eyes glassy, and his voice took on that odd texture it got when he was trying to talk past his emotions. The audience, seeing the genuine joy and pride on Jon’s face, yelled more loudly, and Jon’s shout became that much louder to be heard over them.

Stephen, uncharacteristically, was embarrassed. So he did what had always been best to deflect attention.

He told a joke.

And Jon giggled. The skit got back on course.

He was back in New York. He was home. And Jon was right down the street.

_He’s proud of me._

Stephen, after 10 years, couldn’t miss the fact that Jon’s eyes were no longer looking directly into the camera.

“It’s good to have you back, sir.”

“It’s wonderful to be back, sir.”

And if the audience took Stephen’s unusually stoic face for Character during the toss, tonight he’d let it ride.

“We missed ya.”

_He missed me._

And, if his audience didn’t understand the self-indulgent smile that took over his face after Jon signed off, well, he’d let that ride too.

_Of course he missed me. He thinks I’m beautiful._

*****

Story prompted by this clip: <http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0fnHcbQJiYM>  
Last scene based on this clip: http://www.cc.com/video-clips/hovlwo/the-daily-show-with-jon-stewart-daily-colbert---welcome-home--stephen

 


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